Chalk Drawn Gardens
by NessieWinsa
Summary: You want to know irony? Okay, here's an example. I have a teacher who is nicer than my mother, and I start to adore her, then her son shows up and doesn't even help her out. Yeah, irony right THERE. That idiot Fujisaki...
1. My Father's Garden

**Piggy-chan: I wanted to write another family-touching/humouress (later on though)/romance Rimahiko story :D**

**Rima: Oh God, here we go again...**

**Piggy-chan: Shuddup! At least I WRITE stories, Little Miss Midget.**

**Rima: Why I oughta-**

**Piggyy-chan: I DON'T own anything, except the plot of the story. Then again, nobody here really owns Shugo Chara...**

_-NW _:3

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Chalk Drawn Gardens

My Father's Garden

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_"So maybe somday we'll each find our own perfect garden instead."_

_"But how will we get there?"_

_"That's a good question. Maybe we can only go to our garden after we die. Perhaps that's why we're not allowed to live forever."_

_Quote from_

_~ The Garden Of Eve_

* * *

I guess it all started in fifth grade.

We had the most beautiful teacher in the world. She had long, delicate violet hair which she always wore in different hair styles. She had pretty orange-yellow eyes that reminded me of sunflowers. She smelled like the delicate Wisteria flowers after a fresh wet rain and had a smile that could melt your heart. You'd have to be plain dumb to hate her. Heck, you would have to be mental to _not_ want to be the teacher's pet.

Every kid that knew her, loved her. She was the perfect teacher. Now, I don't usually fawn over looks, so that's why I didn't like her that much. But when I was in second grade, she found me at the back of school crying. My father had died and I had thrown things in a fit of rage. I had tried to break a window, but my fist had twisted and I was in severe pain. I cried and she heard me and immediatly drove me to the emergency room. They got my hand fixed and she helped me sort out my feelings.

"I'm sorry," I apologized through tears. No one had done anything as kind to me as she had. "Mother says I am a burden. I'm so sorry."

"You know," she said in that melodic voice of hers, "I always wanted a daughter. If you want to talk to me again, I will be here."

I had loved her since then. I wished my own mother had been like her. Of course, that never happened. My mother was a real workaholic. She didn't even have the decency to make me food. I would go out for dinner and buy food at the local grocers despite the fact I was still only eight years old. Sometimes, I met up with the teacher at a local diner, and I would talk about all my problems. You wouldn't expect to find such a pretty lady at a cheap diner, one of those old fashioned Western types of restaurants. They would have checkered floored patterns and seats that looked like tall stools at the counter where you could buy beer. The waitresses used to wear roller skates, but one girl tripped over a chair leg and broke her ankle. She sued them and they stopped getting the waitresses to wear them, at least, that's what they said had happened. The four-seated tables were placed by the wall and a couch-like chair that fit two people on either side. It reminded me of school bus seats made out of that cushion like cotton stuff and you could bounce on it. The lights hung low and lanterns were strung up on the walls like it was outside as American '80s music played.

It was nice to have someone to talk to, to share and let everything out. I would tell small events to large ones and she would sit there, listening to everything I said without interrupting. She would always remember what I had said before and bring it up if it had any relationship to the subject we had been talking about at the moment. She would kindly comfort me and I was grateful.

My own mother hardly even looked at me. She worked until around ten at night and woke up at eleven in the morning when I was at school. We hardly spoke to one another, saying since dad left she had to work harder; at least, that was her excuse.

"Try not to be too harsh," Sensei would say. "It must be hard for her too. To take good care of you and herself, to work over time says a lot more than you think."

I would never argue, but I would doubt her at times. Maybe it was because I didn't know what it felt like to be in my mother's shoes. I didn't know back then. I just liked to hear Sensei's voice.

I remembered someone else's voice that comforted me. My dad had a nice, calm and smoothing voice too. He laughed when I tripped and would help me back up. His laugh, his smile, his hugs, they all felt warm and soft and full of security. It made me feel safe. He always lightened the mood of the house, even when it was cold and dark and empty, he filled it somehow. He was one of those environmental green saving people. He owned a tree and gardens business and knew about everything there was to giving plants life. That's what he did. He gave things life.

He made the house into a large jungle, at least three plants per room, and when father planted them, they would grow. He once planted a seed in the dead of winter. Mother thought it would die, and I would listen to them challenge each other playfully in the kitchen betting if the plant would grow or not. Father always won their bets.

One day, he went off to work and never came back home. He had passed away in an accident with two other cars that were racing on the highway, lost control, and hit my father's car. When he left, all that warmth and goodness left with him, and I fell apart. Not only that, but mother was never the same. To me, after the accident, I had lost both of my parents. My mother hardly looked at me, so there wasn't much of a difference to say she died too. Sometimes, at midnight, I would see a faint light from mother's bedroom and peek in, just enough to see what she was doing. I would see her looking through the photo album, turning the pages gently, like she was turning a newborn in her arms. Her eyes would always stop on the picture with all three of us. It was a picture we had taken for a family portrait only a few days before father died. He had been smiling, and in one of the many shots we had taken, he had hugged both of us. He had whispered he loved us.

Coming to think of it, I couldn't remember my own father's face anymore. Whenever I looked at his portrait, hanging in his office, I would look at him like he was a stranger to me. I had his eyes and his laugh, but he still felt so distant.

"It's not your fault," Sensei would tell me. "Young children don't usually remember such things so vividly."

But they should have. _I_ should have. It was a big chunk of my life that had affected my me, yet I couldn't remember it.

"Don't worry," Sensei would reassure me. "Memory is a strange thing. It can make us remember things when we least expect them to."

Sensei had helped me through so many things.

I would come into Sensei's classroom and stay long hours after school to wash the chalkboards. Sensei would walk up from behind me gracefully and softly touch my head. When I was done, I would help her out with her work, and when she could do things on her own, I would sit down on a desk and do my homework. Sometimes, when I had nothing to do, I would draw in my notebook.

"Your garden is very beautiful," Sensei told me. She would run a smooth finger on the flower petals like they were real.

"This is the garden father told me about," I replied. "He said we will all go to this garden when we can't live here anymore."

"Your father is right," Sensei said and patted my shoulder. "I suspect he's there, right now, waiting until the time is right when your mother and you come to see him."

"Mother doesn't believe in the garden," I confessed. "She doesn't believe in a perfect garden and calls them stories."

"Maybe not finding a perfect garden is a story," Sensei said. "Believing is what makes things real, right?" I nodded and brushed her chalk finger marks off of my notebook.

* * *

I had spent a lot of my time with her, and when I learned I would be in her class the following year, I became excited. I thought about all the time we could talk to each other, and smiled dreamily.

But then, on the second day of school, Sensei introduced a transferred student. To make things worse, he was her _son_.

"My name is Fujisaki Nagihiko," he said. "I hope we can all get along." and then bowed slightly.

I mean, how horrible is that? I was beginning to think of Fujisaki sensei as my mother, when suddenly, I find out she has a _son_. My heart almost broke apart. I didn't know who this guy was, but he was probably going to suck up all of Fujisaki's attention and leave me in the cold. So I decided, I was going to hate him. How hard was it going to be? He had long, indigo hair and eyes exactly like his mother. He dressed like a boy, but he acted a little feminine-ish. He was a guy, who looked like a girl. Not too hard to hate him. All the girls started getting moon eyes and told him they loved his hair. He smiled in acknowledgment, but his eyes gave off a pissed vibe. The guys liked him because he could play basketball pretty well. He could even dance, which wasn't something you would see a boy do now-a-days. The only one who didn't talk to him was me. At the beginning of class, all the students would gather around him and ask him questions. When he caught me staring, I would glare at him and turn back my attention to homework, or a book or whatever else happened to be in my hands.

"You don't seem to like Nagi-kun," Amu said at lunch time.

I looked up from my food. "Who?"

"Fujisaki sensei's son," Amu said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh," I said bluntly. "_Him_."

"He's not as bad as you think he is," reasoned Amu. "He's actually really nice and kind. He's polite and not selfish at all! A few girls confessed to him, you know. And instead of rejecting them straight out, he told them he couldn't accept because he already liked someone else. Then he said just because he refused, didn't mean they wouldn't have another chance with someone else and wished them luck. Isn't he a gentleman?"

"Uh," I said, tapping the end of the fork against my chin. "No?"

Amu rolled her eyes. "You never get things. You should at least give him a chance," then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted that _demon_ walking on the sidewalk with another boy.

"Hotori-kun! Fujisaki-kun!" Amu waved and started down the hill. I didn't move from my spot. Amu gave me an annoyed look and took my lunch out of my hands. "You're coming," she hissed, and I could only nod for fear Amu would start to get angry with me.

When we were at the bottom of the hill, I made no eye contact with that he-she.

"Hinamori-san," both boys said in acknowledgment. The blonde turned to me and nodded, "Mashiro-san."

The purple-headed boy just stared at me blankly, like he was thinking about something. Then he smiled and extended a hand. "I'm Fujisaki Nagihiko, who might you be?"

"Someone who wants to be left alone," I snapped and turned to leave.

"Rima!" Amu grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me forward to receive the handshake.

I glared at his hand and the mood started to get uncomfortable.

"Um," the purple demon said. "Is everything alright?"

"No," I slapped his hand away with my lunch bag. "Everything was perfectly fine until you came." Then I paced up the hill and out of sight.

* * *

Everything he did irritated me. Every smile he wiggled out of his lips enraged me. Every second he was alive gave me a reason to hate him. I didn't like this boy and that was that.

I still stayed after school to help Fujisaki sensei wash the chalkboards and things. _He_ was never there. Did he realize he was unsupportive of his mother? Didn't he feel guilty not helping her? What a spoiled brat. He probably didn't even notice he had the most wonderful mother any child could ever wish for. What type of son was he?

"Thank you again, Rima-chan." Fujisaki sensei smiled at me with her elegant face, her lips curling into a smile.

"Glad I could help," I responded and strutted back to my desk to pick up my bag.

"Something's bothering you, isn't there, Rima-chan?"

I paused in my actions, then resumed. "No, not at all. Why would you say that?"

"It's not good to lie, my dear." Sensei put a warm hand on my shoulder. "Women have ways of understanding young girls."

"If only that was true with mother," I said with a sigh.

Fujisaki sensei smiled regretfully. "She will, I promise you that. One day, her garden gates will open, and she will come back to life."

That's how she always got me to relax. She talked about father's garden. The one mother never believed in.

"Fujisaki sensei?" I asked her without looking her in the eye. "Does your son love you?"

She seemed taken aback by the question. "W-why, yes, he does. I assume so."

"But he never helps you out?" She remained quiet. I slung my bag over my shoulder and marched out of the room. Before I went, I said, "Maybe if he knew what a good mother you were, he would adore you as much as I do." And I stalked out. As I did, I heard Fujisaki sensei's quiet sobs echo in the empty classroom.

* * *

**Piggy-chan: Well, that was... a real bummer.**

**Rima: Wait, what?**

**Piggy-chan: I actually wanted to make this a two-shot, but if anyone wants me to make this longer, include all the main-ish characters and such, go to my poll on my profile, or just review and tell me XD**

**Rima: You don't have a plot to go with, do you?**

**Piggy-chan: Well, yes I do! Sort of, it's not genius or anything, but I want to continue this. If anything, maybe five chappies or something.**

**Rima: Hm, so I really like Nagihiko's mother here, huh?**

**Piggy-chan: Yup, but it felt kinda sad to leave it at this. I mean, so many things are left out, and the fact Nagi's mom is crying, well, you'll have to find out why. I feel in the mood for some family-touching stories today...**

**Rima: And my dad's a gardener person? Weird...**

**Piggy-chan: See ya! :D**

-_NW_ :3


	2. Garden With His Tools

**Piggy-chan: YAYY! I've become addicted with this story, so I'm gonna do a lot of updating on this one, if I can :D**

**Rima: Vannie get's really hyper when she gets obsessed over something. First, it was the Beatles, then the Bee Gees, then Michael Jackson, then Star Trek: Voyager, now Shugo Chara, all in one year.**

**Piggy-chan: I said, SHUDDUP!**

**Rima: Yeah, yeah, hoestly, I'm getting tired of disclaimers. So there, disclaimer.**

**Piggy-chan: Whatever. On with the show- er, story...**

_-NW_ :3

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**Chalk Drawn Gardens**

Garden with His Tools

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_Never Jump to Conclusions_

_Until You Have_

_Put on the Gardener's Gloves_

_And Gardened With _

_His Tools_

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"Rima-chan," I was startled and looked over my shoulder to see… _him_.

He stood at the doorway of the classroom, his purple hair flying out from behind him like there was some imaginary fan in front of him.

"Don't," I hissed. "Don't call me that." Out of those ten years in my life, never had I been so angry and hateful with every word I spoke. This was the kind of voice I would use if my mother talked to me, but all the emotion had never been so fired up until now.

My fingers gripped the desk so hard my knuckles turned white, I felt my pulse quicken and my cheeks turned red with fury.

My eyes tried to burn holes into that purple demon's back as he walked by uneasily to his own desk across the room. Surprisingly, he was only five minutes later than I was, which was still fairly early in the morning. Then again, it wouldn't make sense if Fujisaki sensei left their house at a different time than her son. At least, that's what a normal parent and child did.

I had thought on why Fujisaki sensei had cried when I was gone. Maybe it was because I brought bad memories. Maybe it was because I crushed her hope. Or maybe it was because I told the truth, that I was right. Nagihiko, the luckiest boy on Earth, was a selfish and spoiled brat.

* * *

"Class," Fujisaki sensei said in her beautiful musical voice, "Today, I would like to introduce someone."

Oh my God. ANOTHER ONE?

"Please welcome Fujisaki Nadeshiko, my niece."

She almost looked identical to the he-she, but obviously feminine and older. She could have been in high school or university. She looked a lot like Fujisaki sensei, but her eyes were different, and she wore her hair in a high pony-tail, letting her long purple hair droop down her back like a waterfall. Her eyes were the colour of the moon, a yellow-white, and she was almost taller than our teacher.

"Nadeshiko will be our student teacher for now. Remember, she's learning here and will be evaluated like a student, but she is still your elder, so be respectful."

I didn't know if I could follow up to that.

Nadeshiko smiled and bowed very formally. "Pleased to meet everyone." Then she made her way to the back of the class, all eyes on her until she sat down to observe the way Fujisaki sensei was teaching. Just as I saw her passing Nagihiko's desk, I saw him give her a murderous look, then turn around to face the board and start glaring at it like it was the chalkboard's fault he was so mad. Nadeshiko gave him a remorseful look and caught me staring. I too, glared at her, and turned back to the lesson. Why was everything getting harder all of a sudden?

* * *

I sat in the classroom, listening to the yelling and laughter outside the windows. I took out my sketch book and began to draw the garden again. I could never get it perfectly, there was always something wrong, or something missing. I sighed and continued to work my way around the edges when I remembered the way my father had told me the story. He said he would be standing in a garden, maybe hiding behind a rose bush so he could jump out at me so he could scare me. Or up in an apple tree and jump down on me, then we would laugh about it.

Small wet drops of water began to splotch on the page and I gasped. Quickly, I ran over to get a tissue paper and dabbed the paper lightly. Thank God it was only pencil on water colouring paper. I smiled and used my arm to wipe the rest of my tears away.

"What are you crying about?" I almost tripped over the desk behind me if a pair of arms hadn't caught me.

I turned to face Nadeshiko. Her eyes glimmered in the sunlight, and her hair reflected the light onto the floor like a disco ball. Her pale skin looked like beach sand and she looked genuinely worried.

"Nothing," I said and tucked my drawing back in my bag.

"Shouldn't you be outside and enjoying your youth?" She made it sound like she was an elderly lady and I was some five year old.

"Amu's at cheerleading and Yaya's sick." I said. "So I have no one to play with."

Something I said must have punched a memory rewind, because she got this far away look, a serious complexion, her eyes stopped glimmering and grew dark, and the tug on her lips disappeared.

"Someone told me that a long time ago too," she said. "The child never had any good friends and was always lonely, always coming to me for help and reassurance. That was, well, until the child found out the truth, and started to stay farther away."

"What happened?" There was something in this story I could understand. Not belonging, everything confusing and cold, mysterious and full of danger but too naïve about, that was something I could understand. This was something I could relate to because of the experiences in my life.

She cocked her head. "Do you really want to know?"

"Father used to tell me stories and I believed them," I told her. "And I still do."

She smiled. "There once was a family," she started. "They had lots of money, and it was a tradition to pass it down from generation to generation, collecting more through Japanese female dancing. There were two families who had split, and which ever family had the first child would take over the fortune. The wife of one of the families was expecting a child, and she was born as a girl, the first child, so that family got to keep the fortune. But the other wife of the other family, begged to see whose child could do better in dance, another bet. The families agreed, and soon, the second child was born." She sighed. "But this child was a great disappointment."

"Why?" I asked curiously.

"Because the child was a boy." She said, looking at the chalk board in front of her. "He could not take over the fortune, no matter what. But the wife was determined to make him a great dancer, so she hid his gender from everyone, even the child himself, and did the unthinkable. She made him live his life as a girl."

I felt my stomach do some twists and flips. That was… disturbing. Utterly, disturbing. A boy not even knowing he was a boy and made to believe he was a girl, which was just disgusting. I felt like puking all over the floor but I reminded myself I was in school.

"The wife spent most of her days teaching her son about dance, making sure he believed he was female, and never doubting it. Still, she longed for a daughter, because she saw great success with the other family, and grew jealous. She thought her son could do greatness and much better than the other, but in truth, she was just disappointed and selfish with what she had and wanted more."

Maybe my mother was selfish, wanting to live her normal life again. Maybe _I _was selfish, for still wanting my father, even when I knew he was dead. Because I still wished and hoped there would be a day he came back for us.

But this kind of selfishness was very dumb. She had a son, what else did she want? Not everyone had what they wanted, wasn't it wise enough to just suck it all up and go on with life?

"Still not satisfied, she didn't realize her son was growing smarter, and one day, he found out the truth. He realized he was a boy, and all the problems he had at school, they were all natural and completely normal for a boy. When he discovered he was a boy, he became relieved, but also angry that his mother had hid it from him. He confronted his mother and embarrassed her in front of both families. A big fight broke out, and the families became angry at the wife. The only way she could redeem herself, was to disown the boy. But something inside her, maybe her motherly emotions, would not let her, and she did not disown him. And so, they were both to leave, until the young boy grew sorry for his mother, and decided to take the burden on himself."

"So," I said quietly, "What did he do?"

"He promised to keep dancing as a girl, since he was very good at it, and he would never marry nor have children."

I raised an eyebrow. That didn't sound so bad…

"But his mother still felt she needed the occasions to separate from him. So she spent most of her time with her niece, treating he like her own daughter, and grew fond of her, forgetting her own son. Her son became jealous, and stopped paying visits to his cousin. They stopped talking all together, and his cousin still wonders how he's feeling inside. How empty he must feel."

I held my hands together, feeling just as empty inside. I knew the feeling of ignorance and put into reality like it was one big survival game. I knew how confusion and spite felt, your protective walls crumpling around you. It made panic feed your worries and your stress grow into a blooming dandelion. If you didn't pick it out, soon the one dandelion in the yard would turn into five, then twenty, and then you'd have a whole yard full of dandelions.

"I know," I whispered. "I know how it hurts."

She stared out the window, worry written all over her face. "He put on a mask when he was among a crowd, but if you squinted a little, you could see his crying face through the cracks behind it. No one could comfort him, not even I. He didn't want to love anyone because he was afraid they would use it against him, or lie again."

I looked out into the playground. I spotted a purple haired boy playing with Tadase and Kairi. They were playing basket ball, and he was winning. His movements on the court were like dance steps, the magical grace he used to dodge his opponents. But I could tell, the way he stole the ball and thrust it into the net, he was still hurt and angry and empty inside. I started feeling sorry for Nagihiko. Maybe he didn't spend time with his mother was because he was afraid of facing disappointment.

"Thank you," I hugged the tall purple-haired girl, pressing my face into her shirt. "Thank you, Nadeshiko."

She brushed my hair softly, like mother and father once did. "It takes bravery to know the truth, but courage to go and face it."

* * *

I was packing my bag when I saw him sitting on his chair, staring out the window. Fujisaki sensei was running errands and we happened to both be waiting for her. I sat down at my desk and began to draw again, starting from where I had left off.

I don't know what made me start, but I began to hum, singing a song my father had taught me while we pulled weeds out in the backyard.

I sang quietly, the birds outside seemed to chirp with me and the wind became the beat. My father was a superstitious man, and he loved mysteries of UFOs and fortune telling.

"_Father," I had said, crawling into bed. "Mother said your stories aren't true. She calls them fairy tales."_

"_Oh," he said, bouncing on my bed a little as he sat down. "Is that so?"_

"_Yes, she said it doesn't matter because stories are stories."_

_He put a finger to his lips. "Okay, but don't tell mother I told you this. But did you know, mother isn't always right?"_

"_She isn't?"_

"_Of course not. Does she ever tell you stories? No, she doesn't, so how would she know? She doesn't even come in and listen to stories with us, and that's very important, now, isn't it?"_

"_Yes. Very."_

"_So, she doesn't understand the magic, like we do."_

"_If she doesn't understand magic, will she not find the garden?"_

_He smiled. "You can go to the garden even if you don't believe in magic, because magic is what builds the gates, but you need hope, love and happiness to get in."_

"_So, will I go there too?"_

"_One day, Rima, one day you will. But now is too early, you still have so much to do here!"_

"_Yes, I'm going to play with Amu tomorrow."_

"_See, you still have lots of excitement in your life. Don't waste it."_

"What are you drawing?"

I almost fell for the second time that day, except this time out of my chair. Unexpectedly, I was caught once more, by firm hands, but different than last time. I was upside down, looking at a purple-haired boy's face, the ceiling just bellow his forehead. My face began to redden, maybe lack of oxygen, and I quickly picked myself up from his grasp on my arms. He gave me a puzzled look.

"N-nothing," I told him and began to pack my things when he slipped my sketch book out of my bag.

"It's pretty," he said with a smile. "I like the garden."

I felt my cheeks grow even warmer. "Um, thank you." I extended my hand to take the sketch book back, but he must have interpreted it wrong, because he began to shake it. "C-can I have it back?" I asked, confusion in my voice.

"Oh," he hesitated. "Here."

I took it and was about to push it back in my bag when I saw Nagihiko's longing look staring at it. I felt guilt tear at my heart, even when I didn't know why. Maybe it was because he looked so sad, or because I wanted to cheer him up. Maybe it was because I knew so much about him and he didn't even know why I hated him, let alone about myself. I took the picture out, glanced at it for a moment, and ripped the page out from the coils that fastened the pages together. "You can have it," I said and held it out to him.

He just blinked and backed away. "W-what?" Now it was his turn to blush. "I can't take such a pretty picture!"

"You can," I insisted. "You need it more than I do." I didn't even know what I meant by that, but I continued. "My father told me about a magical garden that everyone went to after they passed. There is about every kind of fruit, vegetable, tree, and flower in that garden. And when we die, we go there to spend the rest of eternity with our family and friends."

He stared at the drawing, and very carefully, took it from my hands. He held it like a treasure and traced the leaves like Fujisaki sensei had. "Your father must be a very wise man," he said finally. "I'd like to meet him one day."

"Maybe when you go to the garden you can meet him," I said.

He lifted his eyes onto mine. Suddenly, I couldn't recognize that boy who came into class the other day. The other boy was stronger and fuller of spirit and courage. But this boy, he looked as lost as a new born puppy. His eyes dangled with sorrow and his face grew confused and worried. He looked like his heart was filled with terror and just wanted a place to be loved and healed. "Is he… dead?" He finally asked.

No one had asked me that before. People had just assumed things like such, but he was serious and waiting for my response. Relatives would have said how sad it was to have my father leave me or pass away so fast. But no one had ever said that four letter word to me. Dead. Was my father dead? I saw him in every dream I had, every nightmare, I felt his hugs in my memories, I heard him in every living plant in the house. He wasn't dead. He couldn't have been.

"He's not," I snapped. "He's not dead! He can't be, I just saw him yesterday night. I…" I stopped my rambling, because I realized I _didn't_ remember the last time I saw him. I didn't remember his own face, or the warm hugs, or his musical laughter. I didn't remember his coffee scent, or the shampoo he used or the taste of the apples he used to grow. "He, he can't…" I held my head in my arms, suddenly feeling heavier. "Father can't be… I don't remember anymore."

I didn't even realize I was crying. I felt someone's hand on my shoulder, lift me up and dust me down. I opened my eyes to see Fujisaki sensei. Nagihiko was across the room, his eyes staring at me with sadness, but confusion in them as well. He also looked jealous and expectant, like he was waiting for me to glomp his mother.

"It's alright, dear," she said and brushed the dirt out of my hair. No, I didn't want her touching me. I wasn't the one who should have been crying. It should have been Nagihiko. It should have been his mother. She should have been sorry for what she did to her son. She should have felt sorry, regretful, remorse, even if it was just a little bit. But she was staring at me, like I was her daughter, telling me everything was going to be okay. I felt like reaching out and wrenching her hair out of her scalp. I felt like punching or kicking her violently. But I didn't, because I wasn't going to go as low as she did.

I pulled away from her and she gave me a surprised expression.

I grabbed my bag, and walked away from the teacher. Before I left, I saw Nadeshiko nodding to me, like I had done the best thing there was to do, and Nagihiko looked like someone had just told him he won a lottery. I smiled at them and left for home, where my mother was never cooking, where my father didn't live anymore, and it was empty and hollow. But it wasn't confusing.

* * *

**Piggy-chan: Hm... at least there's a bit of a back story now. Thanks everyone for reviews! I'm glad everyone likes it :D Even the anonymous people.**

**Rima: Oh, so now I feel SORRY for HIM?**

**Piggy-chan: Yes, I mean, who wouldn't? I would be crying for him, isn't it sad?**

**Rima: No...**

**Piggy-chan: Haha, and I'm thinking about making Rima change that 'no marrying policey' Nagihiko was put upon XD**

**Rima: NO! I swear to God, DON'T DO THAT-**

**Piggy-chan: Too late. It's been decided ;D**

_-NW_ :3


End file.
